Cat’s Cradle Carrboro, NC
Contact: sydney.collett@tmwrk.net
Web: noelinehofmann.com
Players: Noeline Hofmann, vocals, guitar; Alex Lyon, bass; Tyler Guenther, guitar; Cam Buie, keys; Nik Winnitowy, drums; Ciara Hager, fiddle
As Nashville country continues its slow slide into flash-trash spectacle—more rhinestone smoke bombs than chord changes—along comes Noeline Hofmann, scootin’ down the snowline from Alberta with the cleanest, meanest, most legit country twang to hit the Triangle in recent memory. In a scene oversaturated with bejeweled swagger and algorithm-approved choruses, Hofmann arrives like a cowboy-booted meteor: real, radiant, and just dangerous enough to wake the genre up.
Her gloriously smooth, unapologetically real outfit torched the bro-pop hay bales and shoved aside the format-chewin’ Nashville mush. What they delivered instead was a tight, precision-tuned, grin-inducing set of originals so fun and full of pulse that folks in the back started leaning forward and forgetting about their beer. This wasn’t nostalgia, either—this was the sound of Country remembering its spine.
They opened with “Lightning,” an electric can-opener of a tune where Hofmann’s vocals slid in warm as molasses on the low lines and snapped with a flinty edge on the chorus. “Rodeo” stomped in with a whip-crack snare, while “Lovers” floated across the room with a groove that shimmered like heat over a two-lane highway. The crowd was small at first, but the room had that unmistakable buzz: the sense that everyone who walked in late was gonna brag later that they were “totally there from the beginning.”
Hofmann—barely a couple dozen birthdays in—carried herself like a road-seasoned veteran. Confident without being slick, present without pandering. She had the kind of stage command that makes the audience relax because she clearly wasn’t worried about anything. With just a raised eyebrow or a half-turn, she moved the band like chess pieces.
By the time they hit the mid-set stretch of “August,” “Bullfighter,” “Sleepless Nights,” and “Big River,” the ensemble was firing in cinematic widescreen. “Bullfighter” came at the room sideways, with flamenco-flavored stabs from the guitar and a rolling tom pattern that gave the tune a sense of danger around the edges. “Sleepless Nights” leaned into a lush 6/8 sway—pure porchlight melancholy—while “Big River” burst out like a barn door kicked open at the right moment: double-stops on the fiddle, bass rattling the floorboards, piano rolling through clusters like someone cleaning a dusty saloon.
Hofmann’s vocal presence was the lynchpin—world-class without ever sounding showy. She’s a wordwright with instinct: shaping phrases like she’s wrestling something honest out of them. Her tone carried an earthy warmth, bolstered by a fearless reach into the high notes when the songs demanded it. There are singers who imitate country. Hofmann exports it.
Musically, the band straddled that elusive “Loretta meets radio-ready” line without ever tipping into cliché. It was honky-tonk by way of a philosophy seminar. Imagine Dwight Yoakam piloting a tour bus driven by Bob Wills, Eldon Shamblin loading gear with quiet exasperation, and Tommy Duncan calling out the stops in perfect pitch. The guitarist had taste for days—never using five notes when two told the story better. The bassist was basically Dusty Hill’s ghost in a clean shirt: solid thunder below, soft feathers above. The drummer had that rare light-heavy touch—hi-hat whispering sweet nothings, kick drum hitting like a polite bar fight. And the fiddle? It swayed, swooned, and occasionally went full wildfire.
Once again, our friends from the Great White North slid down from Alberta with a fresh, original, country-soaked package of songs that swayed, stunned, and absolutely captivated.
